


Pride and Joy

by arthurmorgan-s-heart (Silverblind)



Series: Pride and Joy [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Female Reader, Fluff, Romance, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-08-25 06:52:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16656295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblind/pseuds/arthurmorgan-s-heart
Summary: You find yourself in a sticky situation after escaping your abusive husband. You think that might be the end - but a mysterious man comes to your help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a request fill from my tumblr blog. Uploaded here for convenience - find me on tumblr - arthurmorgan-s-heart
> 
> Original request text: "Could you do something for Arthur x a reader who has a child? Maybe she's a runaway from an abusive husband (maybe she killed him in self-defense and is running from the consequences?) and didn't want to leave her kid behind, and she has walls that come down around Arthur?"

You had been careless. You had allowed them to corner you, and now all that you had done - all that you had risked - would be in vain. 

You look over the low stone wall to where they are standing - three burly men. Bounty hunters - hired guns. You drew your revolver from its holster.

“I’m scared, Mama.” Your daughter is nestled against you, clinging to your waist. The sight of her tear-stained cheeks is like a knife through your heart - though it hardens your resolve as well. You won’t go back. You’ll  _ never _ go back. You count again how many bullets you have left - not enough.  _ Not enough. _

“Come on, now, lady,” one of the bounty hunters call out. “Your husband said to bring you in  _ alive  _ \- he didn’t say nothin’ about  _ unharmed _ . So save yourself and the kid some pain, and come quietly.”

“Go to Hell!” Rage and fear are boiling inside you in equal measure. Rage at your husband’s presumptuousness - did he  _ really _ think you would come back so easily after what he had done? - , and fear for your daughter’s safety. But you would die before you let them take her - or  _ you _ .

“Alright, enough of this,” the bounty hunters’ leader’s annoyance is plain in his voice. “Move in, boys!”

You pet your daughter’s hair as you unwind her arms from around you. “It’ll be alright, darling. It’ll be alright. You’ll see. Stay down, sweetheart. Don’t look.”

The sound of heavy boots on grass grows closer and closer, and you’re about to jump up and fire when an unknown voice rings out.

“Seems to me the lady made it plain she ain’t keen on comin’ with you. Maybe you should leave her alone.”

You stay low and peek over the wall again, seeing a lone man standing behind the bounty hunters - and you can’t help but wonder what kind of goddamn  _ fool _ would throw himself at three armed men.

“Move along, friend. This ain’t none of your business,” the leader growls at the stranger. Then to the others, gesturing toward you: “Grab her.”

The stranger draws his revolver, looking at you for a second from beneath the rim of his hat before turning his attention back to the thugs.

“One step and you’re dead.” his voice is low, even. The threat would have sounded hollow, coming from anyone else, but something in him tell you that he can carry it through. The bounty hunters do not seem to share your feelings; they laugh and raise their weapons. The air stands still.

You spring from behind the wall and fire first.

The man closest to you gasps in surprise when your bullet finds his shoulder, and the others start to turn toward you when three more shots ring out, perfectly aimed, and the thugs fall to the ground, dead.

The man holsters his weapon calmly before he looks at you, meeting your gaze. He’s handsome - in a rugged kind of way - but his eyes are cold, calculating.

“You alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” you answer dryly, not letting your guard down. For all you know, he might just be another of your husband’s henchmen. You level your gun at him when he steps forward. “Don’t come any closer.”

He stops, and offers two empty, open palms toward you. You can see him looking you over, gauging who you might be - who you might have been.

“Ain’t gonna hurt you. Just looks like you could use some help, is all.”

That was very true. You’re neck-deep in trouble, and you know it. You  _ do _ need help - and badly. But you don’t know who to trust. You look at him for a long time. He seems honest - about his intentions, at least. You hesitate, your eyes flicking down toward your daughter, still quivering at your feet.

“Who are you?” you ask, lowering your gun, though you still keep it in a tight grip.

“Name’s Arthur Morgan,” he says, taking a few more steps forward.

“Well, Mr. Morgan, I’m grateful, but I should be going,” you say. To your surprise, he lets out a dry chuckle.

“Well, listen, I ain’t gonna beg you to lemme help you but, well - “ he nudges a dead bounty hunter’s leg with the point of his boot. “Judgin’ by these charming fellers, looks to me like you might be in a heap o’ trouble, ma’am.”

He lowers his hands slowly as you allow him to close the distance between you. You’re exhausted from days of travel - you can hardly believe you’re entertaining the notion of trusting this man. 

“And you would help me?” He nods. “How? Why?”

“Well, I know a desperate soul when I see one,” is all he says. “I can give you a place to sleep for a couple days - “

“Mama, can we go now?” your daughter clings to your skirt as she stands. The man immediately moves to hide the bodies from her view as best he can as she looks up at him with all the suspicion a six-years old can muster. You glance at your daughter before looking back at the stranger. His eyes - that seemed so cold before - have warmed with… sadness? Nostalgia? You can’t quite tell. You sigh as you weigh your options. You’ll never make it if you don’t at least take a couple days to formulate a plan and regain your energy - and with your husband’s thugs at your heels, nowhere is safe as long as you are alone. It seems your best chance is with this man - at least, if things take a turn for the worse, you still have your gun.

“Alright, Mr. Morgan… lead the way.” You hoped with all your heart that you wouldn’t come to regret this.

“I’ll get your horse,” he says. “I’d rather spare your girl the sight.” He gestures to the corpses. You nod and lead your daughter a bit further away.

He comes leading you horse by the reins, his own mount following not far behind. He offers a hand to help you onto your saddle - which you accept - before offering the same to your daughter, but she flinches away.

“It’s alright, darling,” you say softly - hoping to convince both her and yourself. “He’s here to help us.”

Still she shies away. The man puts one knee to the ground, smiling at her - more softly than you would have expected from a man such as him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Joy,” she answers in a small voice.

“A pretty name for a pretty girl,” he says. She giggles - that warms your heart. It seemed like years since you had last heard her laugh. “I’m Arthur. Let’s get you up there so we can get a move on.”

“Arthur, like the stories?” Joy asks as she finally accepts his hand.

“Sure,” he says, lifting her up and sitting her down in front of you on the saddle. “Though ain’t many things further from a king than me.”

He hands you your horse’s reins before climbing up on his own.

“Follow me, then, Mrs….?”

“Y/N,” you answer. “Just Y/N.”

“Alright. Come on, it ain’t far.”

* * *

You don’t know exactly what you had expected to find in that camp of his, but you would never have guessed that you would step in what was nearly a small village.

“Here we are,” he says as the trees open up into a clearing in which stood multiple tents - the other side of the clearing opens up onto Flat Iron lake. The late afternoon light paints everything in tones of orange and red. You see a few women milling about camp, and you feel yourself relax slightly - at least you won’t be alone in a camp full of men.

“Ah, Arthur, glad to see you back.” A slight man with greying hair approaches Arthur, but he pauses when he sees you. “And, ah, who’s this now?”

“This is Y/N, and the little one is Joy,” Arthur says as he climbs off his horse. “Found ‘em bein’ ambushed by bandits.” You don’t feel the need to correct him. The less they know about you, the better.

“Pleased to meet you, ladies,” the older man says. He offers you his hand as Arthur helps Joy down. “Hosea Matthews.”

You dip your head in greeting as more people gather around you - smiling faces that, slowly, put you slightly more at ease. You’re surprised to see a young boy amongst them, but he buries his face in his mother’s - Abigail, if you remember right - skirt and stays back. You take your daughter’s hand as you’re led away, looking back to see that Arthur seems to be in a heated conversation with Hosea and a black-haired man - Dutch? It doesn’t matter. In a few days, you will both be gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite your original plan, days turn into weeks, and then months. The gang doesn’t hide their true occupation from you for very long - not that they really  _ could,  _ anyway, but you don’t care much. As long as they keep your daughter safe, you’d be ready to rob a bank with them, if they asked.

Dutch and Hosea had seemed reluctant to keep you both with them for long - but after a few weeks of earning your keep and not prying into their business, they became more amenable to your presence. You are finally beginning to relax. You still don’t really have a plan, and you keep to yourself - no one has really tried to pry, though they have asked -, but at least it seems like you’ll be safe here - for now.

Joy takes to life in the camp easily - she’s eager to help with small tasks in exchange for stories - which everyone has plenty of. She seems to have taken a particular shine to Arthur: whenever he rides back into camp, she hurries to greet him. From his rather gruff and sullen appearance, you expect him to quickly grow annoyed at your daughter’s attention. But you discover that, under his cold persona, there is a warm, caring, playful man, who always has time to listen to Joy’s latest story. It is a stark contrast from the man you had seen kill others so coldly - though you can’t say you feel sorry for those men. The sight of them together always warms your heart - and makes it beat faster. Many nights spent talking with him by the fire over your time with the gang had awakened in you feelings you had thought dead forever - and though they terrify you, you can’t help but hope he feels the same. You had never thought to feel like this again about anyone after what your husband had put you through - you don’t even know whether to be happy that you can still feel this way, or frustrated with yourself that you would let yourself be put through this again. You can’t decide, and so mostly attempt to put the thoughts from your mind whenever they come. It’s worked, so far, but there are moments where Arthur looks at you in a way that can’t help but make you wonder.

* * *

Night is falling when you finish your chores. You stand and stretch before looking around for Joy. Arthur had come back just a few hours prior - you’re sure that, if you find one, you’ll find the other.

The camp always comes alive after dark - campfires are lit as people gather to talk and sing. You find Arthur sitting around such a fire with Javier, Charles and - yes, Joy. She’s curled up against him, half-asleep as he speaks with the others in a low voice, holding her loosely so that she doesn’t fall off her seat.

“There she is,” he says when you step into the ring of light thrown by the fire. The smile he gives you always threatens to make you blush. You chide yourself internally - you’re not some schoolgirl swooning over a childhood crush.

“Just here to take Joy to bed,” you tell him as you nod to the others in greeting. 

“Looks like she needs it,” Arthur says. “Lemme help you.”

He is on his feet before you can refuse, lifting Joy from her seat and gathering her in his arms. She whines slightly before settling again, surrounding his neck with her arms as she hides her face in the crook of his neck. The sight is bittersweet - you can’t help but remember how her own father had never showed her this kind of attention.

“Thank you for being so patient with her,” you say as you cross the camp toward the tent you share with Mary Beth and Tilly. He smiles.

“Ain’t no problem. She’s a smart girl,” he says. You nod. “Must be proud of her.”

“So, so proud,” you whisper, stepping closer and running a hand through Joy’s hair. She barely moves a muscle, fast asleep in Arthur’s arms. You’re suddenly aware of how close you are to him, and step away again. “It hasn’t been easy for her.”

“Mm. Well, she seems to be doing better now.”

You nod. “Yes. She is.”

You reach the tent, and he lays her on her cot, stepping away to let you tuck her in. She cracks an eye open when you kiss her temlple but quickly falls back asleep.

You both step away, turning back toward the campfire. You feel his eyes on you and turn your head to find him staring. You see in his eyes that there is something on his mind.

“What is it, Arthur?” you ask. He seems to hesitate for a moment, looking away before meeting your eyes again.

“I don’t mean to pry, but… I’ve been wonderin’... The day I found you, those men… They weren’t bandits, were they?”

You look at him for a long time. He’s not the first to ask - but he’s the first that you actually want to share your story with. You sigh.

“I’ll tell you, but I’ll need some whiskey,” you say. He chuckles.

“If there’s one thing this camp ain’t about to run out of, it’s whiskey,” he answers. You wait for him as he fetches a bottle before leading him toward the beach. You want to tell him your story, but you don’t need anyone overhearing. 

“I’ll have to start from the beginning, I think,” you say before taking a long swig of whiskey.

He smiles encouragingly when you look at him. The liquor burns down your throat - you’ve grown used to it over your months here.

“Night’s still young. We got time.”

“Alright then.” You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before you start talking. “My husband and I met in Chicago. He was a lawyer, and I was…” you huff out a breath. “I was… I don’t know what I was. A stupid child dreaming of love and adventure - which is how he managed to drag me out here. I was young - nineteen - and in love - I ignored my parents’ warnings, and followed him.” You walk along the shoreline, staring at your feet. He’s quiet next to you, listening. “We got married and he opened a firm in Saint-Denis - a very successful one. Things were going well - so I thought. It didn’t take long before he showed his true self.”

You stop walking and turn toward the lake to stare out over the water as you take another gulp from your bottle. Next to you, you hear him do the same, but you don’t dare look at him lest you lose your resolve.

“We’d been in Saint-Denis less than a year when he hit me for the first time,” the words almost seem to come on their own now. You couldn’t have stopped even had you wanted to. “I’d dropped his cup of tea, or something equally as insignificant. It was just a slap, and he apologised immediately, saying he was tired from a trying case, swearing it would never happen again.” You bark out a bitter laugh. “Like a fool, I believed him.”

Arthur remains silent, and you take another swig of whiskey. 

“It got worse over the years - he stopped while I was pregnant, thank God, and I was hoping that it was over, that he’d calm down after Joy was born - “ you chuckle dryly. “I’m sure you can guess how  _ that  _ turned out.”

You finally look to him, meeting his eye. His face seems blank, but his jaw is gritted in anger and his hands curled into fists at his sides. You’d give anything for your husband to be here right at this moment - you’re sure that Arthur would shoot him in a heartbeat. You sigh. That kind of wishful thinking had never gotten you anywhere.

“He never beat Joy, I’ll give him that. But he ignored her - Hell, you’ve been more of a father to her in the last few weeks than he’s ever been in all her life.” He looks away from you at your words, but not quickly enough for you to miss the shadow that passes behind his eyes, reminding you of the day you met - the sadness, the longing you had seen in his gaze when he had first laid eyes on Joy. You almost want to ask him about it, but you decide against it. Not today.

“What made you leave, in the end?” he asked after a moment of silence. “Sounds to me like you were with that feller a long time.”

You smile grimly.

“Ten years. Ten goddamn years I wasted on that man.” You take a shaky breath and close your eyes. Simply thinking about the day that pushed you over the edge is enough for you to feel like you’re back there. He notices your shaking hands, and his fingertips brush your arm. You barely prevent yourself from recoiling at the feeling of his rough fingers on your skin, but the contact is so light and gentle that you feel yourself relax. You had almost forgotten that a man’s touch could come without pain.

“You don’t have to - “

“No, it’s alright.” You feel like you need to say it. That the burden of what happened that day might crush you if you don’t share it with someone -  _ anyone _ . You turn your eyes back to the lake. “He… came home drunk - from a business dinner, I think. I was sitting in the parlour - I was… I don’t even remember what I was doing. He just came in and started shouting. That was nothing new - I probably would still be there if that was all he had done. But then he threw himself at me... and - “ you feel tears prick your eyes and run down your cheeks. You’re sure you would feel embarrassed by your display were you not overwhelmed by memories. “He started choking me. He was enraged. He was going to kill me. I know it.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold. You feel Arthur’s hand hovering near your shoulder, not daring to touch, though he desperately wants to bring you comfort.

“I grabbed the first heavy thing I could reach - a statuette, I think? - and I smashed it against his head. Again and again. I thought he was dead. There was blood everywhere. I didn’t have time to think. I took Joy and I fled, didn’t take anything else but my revolver - a gift from him, ironically.” You pat the weapon hanging from your belt - the only thing left from your old life. “I had no plan - just a bit of money, enough to last us a couple of days.”

You wipe at your cheeks and drink from your bottle before looking at him. You see sadness in his eyes, but most of all, rage - a rage that you think might rival yours. Somehow, that comforts you.

“You know the rest,” you say finally. “He sent those thugs after us, and they would have succeeded if not for you. But I won’t go back.  _ Never _ .”

He turns to face you and puts his hands on your shoulders, slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wish. You don’t - not anymore. You were done letting a memory control your life.

“I ain’t never gonna let them take you,” he whispers. His hands are warm, and you lean into his touch. “Either of you. I swear.”

You let the bottle slip from your fingers - it lands with a dull  _ thud _ \- as you place one hand on his cheek, the other splaying over his chest - his heartbeat fast but steady under your touch.His gaze flickers from your eyes to your lips as his hold shifts to your hips - hands smoothing down your back until they find their place. He draws you against him slowly, his grip light so that you can easily break away should you want to. But you don’t remember ever having been held so tenderly in your life - like you’re something precious and rare. A moment passes like this, simply holding one another, until you make your decision, and lay a tender kiss to his lips. It’s feather-light, so much so that you almost fear he missed it entirely, but as you pull away he chases your lips for another, more heated kiss. For the first time in weeks, all thoughts of your husband disappear from your mind. There is only Arthur, and his warmth. He tastes of smoke and whiskey, smells like gunpowder. You know this is different that what you had with your husband - there had been poison there, and lies. Here, there was nothing but truth - as ugly as it might be.

When you part, he rests his forehead against yours, still holding you tight. You stroke his bearded cheek, and he turns his head to kiss your palm. 

“You got all of us now,” he whispers. “And you got me. Ain’t never gonna leave you behind.”

You smile. For the first time in years, you dare to let hope bloom within you.

“I know.”

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

It comes again on a warm summer afternoon on the shore of Flat Iron Lake, as it always does when Arthur thinks you’re not looking; that wistful air he sometimes gets when he looks at Joy, eyes veiled by memories and regrets. You’d seen it before, many times, and it always broke your heart, though you’d never dared to ask him about it. But today, as you sit together under the shade of a great oak tree, watching Joy and Jack play in the water under Abigail’s watchful eye, his arm wrapped loosely around your waist, the time seems more right than it ever has before. You close the book you’d been reading, putting it aside before you turn to look at him, gathering your courage. He doesn’t see you, still lost in thought.

“Are you alright, Arthur?”

Your voice seems to startle him, his eyes darting around for a moment before focusing on you, gaze still thick with longing and sorrow. You press a hand to his knee, and he smiles - hollow, forced.

“Sure,” he answers, as you knew he would. “Just daydreamin’.”

“Arthur,” you sigh, giving him a pleading look. “Please.”

There’s a flash of understanding in his eyes, and he turns away; you reach up to cradle his cheek, gently bringing his gaze back to you. 

“It hurts me to see you like this,” you whisper as your thumb sweeps lightly over his cheekbone. “Just talk to me. Please.”

A warm breeze rustles through the leaves of the tree above you as he looks at you with an indecipherable expression. Jack’s laughter rings out over the water as he splashes around in the shallows with Joy. Something seems to crack and fall apart behind Arthur’s eyes, and he sighs heavily, taking the hand you held to his cheek in his as he turns his head to look at the children.

“Don’t like to talk about this,” he says softly as his thumb absent-mindedly strokes the back of your hand. The arm he has around your waist tightens slightly.

“I won’t pry, Arthur,” you reply, moving closer to him, until your thigh presses against his and you can lay your head on his shoulder. “I just want to know you’re okay.”

“I wanna talk about it,” he answers immediately, and you have a feeling he’s saying it more for his own sake than yours. “You deserve to know.”

He’s silent for a long while, as if steeling himself - he watches as Joy tries to catch fish with her hands, splashing along the shore with Jack in tow. You hear him take a deep breath, and you squeeze his hand encouragingly as you raise your head to look at him.

“I had a son,” he starts suddenly. He speaks quickly, all in one breath, as if afraid he might change his mind if he waits even one second too long. “Long ago. He died. His mother, too.”

You feel your breath leave you as something cold and cruel squeezes at your heart - you’d known there had been other women before you, of course - but to know that he had been a father -  _ once  _ \- is another matter entirely. The pain in his voice is raw and new, immeasurable and unfathomable.

“His name was Isaac,” you hear him say - softly, quietly. “He was Joy’s age when - He was -”

The words catch in his throat, and he looks up at the sky, trying to steady his breathing.

“He was a good kid - smart, already better than I’d ever been, better than I’ll ever be,” he continues. You resist the urge to correct him, as you always do when he starts talking badly about himself - this time, he needs to speak. “Same for his mother, Eliza - too good for a man like me.”

He pauses again, lowering his gaze to the horizon. It’s rare to see him so open, so vulnerable - you feel as if a veil has been lifted between the two of you, though you’d never noticed its presence before.

“Couldn’t leave Dutch, but I didn’t wanna run off on her neither,” he says, looking down at the hand he’s still holding, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. “So, couple times a year, I’d stop by, give her some money, see Isaac.” You hear him take in a shuddering breath before he continues. “Every time I saw him, he’d be taller, and stronger, and - he looked like me.” He’s silent again, for a long while. “Should’ve been there. To see him grow up. To protect him. Protect both of ‘em. But I wasn’t.”

He looks toward the lake again, watching as Joy and Jack sit together at the edge of the water.

“How did it happen?” you ask softly, trying to prevent your voice from shaking. You feel him grip your hand tighter.

“Robbed,” he answers simply, coldly. “Robbed and murdered. Found ‘em dead and buried. Two crosses outside that little house she had. I - “

The words become too heavy again, unable to claw their way out of his throat, and he shuts his eyes, taking a slow, steadying breath.

“I hunted ‘em. The men that did this. Hunted ‘em down and killed ‘em -  _ slow _ . Every last one,” he whispers, eyes still closed, as if trying to shutter himself from the world around him. “You wanna know how much they got out of murderin’ an innocent woman and her child? How much their lives were worth to those men?”

His voice is suddenly hard, cold, the voice you remember from that day, when he had shot the men attempting to take you back to your husband, and you desperately want to say no, already overwhelmed by his grief; but when he opens his eyes to look at you, you see that he’s drowning, guilt and regret and rage suffocating him - so you stay silent, and listen.

“Ten dollars,” he breathes, his voice almost falling apart as he chokes out the words. “Ten  _ goddamn _ dollars.”

You hear a sob, and eventually realise that it came from you. You feel tears rolling down your cheeks, and he lets go of your hand, reaching up to wipe them away, as gentle as ever, even now.

“Isaac… He was the only good thing I ever brought into the world,” he whispers as he brushes the last of your tears from your cheeks. “And he was taken from it by a man like me. I shoulda known, really - I’m a bad man, and nothin’ good should happen to bad men. Isaac, Eliza - they didn’t deserve what happened to ‘em but - I did.”

“ _ No _ .” The word rushes from your lips instantly, as if on instinct. He scoffs, turning away, and you feel a strange kind of anger rise within you - it’s rage and sorrow and grief all at once, clashing together, so violently that you almost feel as if they’ll burst out of you at any moment. “You’re nothing like those men.”

“Don’t know about that,” he mutters, reaching up to take off his hat.

“Look at me, Arthur,” you say firmly, trying to keep your voice steady. He makes no move to comply. “ _ Look at me _ .”

A few moments crawl by before he finally does, his face displaying none of his inner turmoil - though his eyes give him away, brimming with pain and regrets and  _ what-ifs _ .

“You are  _ nothing  _ like those men,” you repeat, though this time you can’t quite keep your voice from shaking and cracking, feeling tears well in your eyes once more as he purses his lips, plainly unconvinced.

“I rob,” he replies coldly, matter-of-factly. “I kill. Ain’t no different.”

“You’re no saint,” you say, reaching down to gather his hand in yours, palms up. “I know that. But as much as you might tell yourself the opposite, you’re a better man than a great many people.” You see him open his mouth to speak - to protest, you’re sure of it -, but you silence him with a look. “Even then, no one -  _ no one _ \- can ever do enough harm to deserve what happened to you -  _ to them _ .” Your thumbs stroke the calloused skin of his palms, and he looks down at his hands in yours. “Are you telling me that you would kill a family for a fistful of dollars? Is that the kind of man you think you are?”

The words are much blunter and harsher than you’d ever intended them to be, and you see his shoulders tense - though he doesn’t pull away, silently waiting for your next words.

“No,” you say quietly, and that finally draws his eyes back up to yours. You smile despite the tears in your eyes, tightening your grasp on his hands. “You’re the kind of man who stops to help a woman and her child -  _ strangers _ \- being attacked by three armed men. And who would do that, if not a good man?”

He laughs dryly at your words, a humourless chuckle that stabs at your heart, shaking his hands free of your grasp.

“Guess I managed to do at least one thing right,” he breathes with a bitter smile, and you sigh, reaching up to cradle his cheek.

“Arthur, please - “

“Mama!” Joy’s voice rings out before you can say any more, and you lower your hand as you both turn your head to see her running toward you with a grin seemingly as bright as the sun itself. “Look what I found!”

She skids to a stop in front of you, her wet, bare feet slipping on the grass, and Arthur reaches out to catch her, but she steadies herself before she can fall, barely taking the time to catch her breath before she holds up an iridescent seashell for you to see.

“Look!” she says excitedly, angling it toward Arthur. There is a gentle smile on his lips as he listens to her babbling, all trace of his previous sorrow apparently gone from his countenance. 

“Well, ain’t that the prettiest thing,” he says softly, and Joy beams up at him proudly, though her smile slowly fades when she meets his eyes, replaced by a concerned frown.

“You look sad, Arthur,” she says in a small voice, and his smile falters for half a heartbeat. You almost sigh - she had always been a perceptive child. But before you can divert her attention, he picks up his hat, reaching out to smooth her damp hair away from her face before putting it on her head - that never fails to make her laugh, and today is no different. She giggles as she holds it up to prevent it from falling too low over her face, and you can’t help a smile as Arthur stands before holding out his hand to you, helping you up as well.

“I’m alright, sweet pea,” he answers, his hand squeezing yours for a moment before he lets go. “Just thinkin’ about how we gonna have to eat Pearson’s cookin’ again tonight.”

She laughs again at that, and you shoot him a reproachful look, though you can’t help a smile.

“Now, that’s not very nice,” you say chidingly as you lift Joy into your arms before starting toward the camp, Arthur falling in step next to you as he places a hand on the small of your back. “It’s not so bad.”  

“If you say so, darlin’,” he replies as you reach the camp, an exaggerated frown drawing another burst of laughter from your daughter. He turns to face you, reaching out to pluck his hat from Joy’s head before leaning forward to press a feather-light kiss to your cheek.

“I’ll see you later,” he says simply, and suddenly you see it again in his eyes, in the curve of his smile - grief and regrets, still weighing on his mind. He turns away before you can say anything, and you watch him go - there is still much left to say, but you suppose it’ll have to wait.

“Alright,” you say, looking back to Joy with a smile, doing your best to hide your own turmoil. “Let’s go get changed for dinner.”

* * *

Arthur is distant that evening; he’s sitting next to you, and yet you feel as if he’s not really there - he seems to be a thousand miles away, even as he smiles and laughs and sings, as if he had left half of himself in another time, another place. That worries you, and your own thoughts are little more than a whirlwind of grief and sorrow, and yet there is little you can do but wait for him to be ready to talk again.

The evening slowly bleeds away into night as you sit together around the campfire, and soon you can hear Joy yawning from where she’s sitting between you and Arthur, struggling to keep her eyes open.

“Time for bed, I think,” you say softly as you stand up. Your eyes flick to Arthur; he’s already  wordlessly gathering her into his arms despite her feeble protests, lifting her from her seat easily. His eyes meet yours, and you follow him as he steps away from the campfire.

“I’m not tired,” Joy whines as she pushes away from Arthur to look him in the eyes with all the severity she can muster. He chuckles and looks to you - the fond glint you see in his eyes comforts you, and you feel a small smile tug at your own lips.

“That so? Your mama seems to think otherwise,” he replies, and you huff out a laugh as Joy turns her glare toward you.

“Shifting the blame, Arthur?” you say teasingly. “That’s not a very good example to give.”

“Ain’t never been called a ‘good example’ before” he answers as he reaches your tent, waiting for you to step in before he does the same. “Don’t think that’ll ever change.”

You laugh quietly, lighting the lantern hanging from a post next to the door while he puts Joy down. Despite her previous resistance, she changes into her nightclothes with little fuss, though she obstinately refuses to be tucked into bed.

“I’m  _ not _ tired!” she insists again, and you hold back a sigh.

“How about a story, then?” you ask with a smile, but she shakes her head.

“I’ve heard all of your stories already, Mama,” she replies with a pout, and this time you can’t help a long, exasperated groan. You feel Arthur’s hand on your shoulder, squeezing comfortingly, and you look up at him.

“Ain’t heard all of mine, though,” he says lightly, and Joy’s eyes immediately spark with interest. “Wanna hear ‘bout how I got my first horse?”

She nods enthusiastically, and he bends down to throw back the covers of her bed, gesturing at the empty space pointedly. You see her frown as she looks between him and the bed with suspicion, seemingly weighing her options before apparently deciding that the story was worth laying down for; she climbs into bed and allows Arthur to tuck her in before he sits down next to her, and you turn the flame of the lantern down until it’s barely throwing any light at all, bathing the tent in a warm orange glow.

“Alright,” he says once she’s settled. “You ready?” she nods, and he smiles at her before starting. “We was in New Austin - I must’ve been sixteen. Hosea decided I needed my own horse, wanted to show me how to break one - ‘course, I thought I knew everythin’ already, like all the kids think they do when they’re sixteen, so I didn’t wanna listen to him…”

You watch as he weaves his story, making Joy laugh with exaggerated gestures and a rather poor Hosea impression, and suddenly you can’t help but wonder if he’d told that story to Isaac, as well - and all at once, the weight of all that he had told you comes crashing back down on your shoulders from where you’d managed to push it to the back of your mind for a few hours, making tears well in your eyes. You feel a sob rise through you, but you silence it, quickly ducking out of the tent before another can come, trusting that Joy is too taken with Arthur’s story to notice, though you feel his eyes on you as you push the canvas aside to step out. You shiver in the cool night air as you stalk away from the tent, taking deep, steadying breaths to try and calm yourself. Tears roll down your cheeks all the same, and you wipe at them almost angrily as you walk toward the shore, only stopping when you come to the edge of the water, the waves almost touching the tip of your shoes. 

The minutes grind by as you stand there, staring out over the water, and eventually you hear Arthur’s familiar footsteps behind you, and you turn to see him put a cigarette between his lips as he comes to stand next to you.

“She’s asleep,” he says simply as he strikes a match with his thumb, bringing it up to light the cigarette before throwing it in the water. He stands next to you in silence for a moment, taking a drag of his cigarette before offering it to you. “You alright?”

You take it, bringing it up to your mouth as you allow yourself a sigh. “Not really.”

He bows his head when you look at him, hooking his thumbs into his belt as he looks down at the ground.

“Thinkin’ about what I told you?” he asks quietly, and he looks up just enough to see you nod as you place the cigarette between your lips, breathing deep. He shakes his head with a sigh of his own, kicking at a few pebbles to send them clattering into the water. “Shouldn’t’ve bothered you with that. I’m sorry.”

You exhale the smoke before throwing the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under your heel.

“No, Arthur,” you say as you turn to him, reaching out to take his hand in yours and lacing your fingers through his as he looks up to meet your eyes. The smile you give him is small and shadowed with grief, but it is a smile nonetheless. “I’m glad you did. You trust me enough to share that part of your life with me, and I’m grateful. Truly.”

He looks at you for a long while before he frees his hand from yours to bring his arm around your waist, drawing you close against him as he presses his lips to your temple.

“I just - Sometimes, when I look at her…” he whispers as he buries his face in your hair, warm breath tickling your ear as he exhales shakily, “I just… think back on how I failed Isaac, and Eliza.” He draws back, meeting your eyes - you’ve never seen him look so terrified. “How I’ll fail you too, one day.”

“You won’t,” you breathe in reply - he doesn’t believe you, you know he doesn’t. But you say it all the same. “I won’t let you.”

He laughs quietly, and you hope that he’ll allow himself to believe it, if only for a moment. He presses his forehead to yours as his hand comes up to cradle your cheek, and you feel warmth spread through you despite the cold wind blowing in from the lake. 

“I’m sure,” he answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To tell the truth, I’m still not totally happy with this - this conversation would have made much more sense before they got together, but I wasn’t planning on writing more of this at first, so… I also didn’t want to do a ‘flashback’ chapter, because I hate those, and I already had half of this written. I just can’t fucking look at it anymore or I will *literally* die.


End file.
